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A SOUVEN IR 



ROBERT BURNS 



Fragments culled :imiJ the 
scenes of his chequered life 



George W. Pettit 

Artist 

Read before tlie 

Calhdon IAN Club 

OF PHILADELPHIA 

1^^ Illustrated l->y P. Moran and E. F. Fabhr. 



Published by 
ISAIAH PRICE, D. D. S. 
Philadelphia, 1895. 



> ' > , 



r&^^y 




H'ipl 



OAj 



COPYRIOHTKD 
BY 

Isaiah Prick, 
1895. 



ARTIST PROOF EDITION LIMITED TO 100 COPIES. 



JVo. 



PREFACE. 

Great geniuses belong to certain epochs of the world's 
history, and not to any particular nation or century. They 
are the result of the accumulated knowledge, the senti- 
ments, and the aspirations of preceeding generations. They 
are claimed by and justly belong to the world at large, and 
not exclusively to the country which gave them birth. 

By the expression of universal sentiments, they give 
that touch of nature which makes the whole world akin, and 
which not only serves to unite more closely the inhabitants 
of their own country, but nations which differ widely on 
almost every vital principle. 

Among such we have Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, 
and Leonardo, in art. Shakspeare, Goethe, Chateaubriand, 
Scott, and Burns, in literature. 

The heart of every German thrills with pride when 
Goethe, or Schiller are mentioned, and Scotchmen severed 
from their bonnie highlands by many a league of trackless sea. 



lovingly clasps the hand of a brother Scot when memories 
of "auld lang syne" are recalled by the familiar songs 
of Robert Burns. 

To record the many phases of character belonging to a 
genius such as Burns possessed would be far be}-ond the 
scope of this brief essay ; which, is intended solely, to convey 
a faithful transcript of the impressions recei\'ed from scenes 
amid which the greater part of his melancholy career was 
passed. 

G. W. P. 



, ,1 hour ha . . 

77//' another may forget th- 
Thai s)>n'!rs sar suretlv on licr kncr : 



A>ni 



BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT BURNS. 






" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his ivedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the erozni 

That 071 his head an hour has been, 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae szveetly on her knee : 
But Til remember thee, Gle^icairn, 

And «' that thou hast done for me /" 



LLUSTRATIONS. 



PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BURNS. 

BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

TWA BRIGS OF AYR. 

AELOWAY KIRK. 

BURNS MONUMENT, AYR. 

AULD BRIG OF BOON. 

BANKS OF BOON. 

FROM THE BROWN HILES OF CARRICK. 

MOSSGIEE. 

AIESA CRAIG. 



mid- winter, a terrible storm passed o\ er 

itish Isl 1 and sleet, that 

•|*" swept the barren moors and whistled through the soli- 

< :x o-len? or-SXl^n?Pla.§f?JJ^ffie4i?ffX. of old ocean 

^t her rocky headlands. 

H as wild> ' , 

itipne, at intervals, mitil 

,, then that this one stom; 

inhered, whilst others are so soon foi^ . .. 
v.^ii LiiuL i>ctrticular night, amid the moaning and sigh- 
'" ^' wind, and the beating of hail and sleet, within a 

iiggin erected by the hornv ^ ^ *" •• 

' luan, was heard the first-waiim^^ 

^^ he was ushered into a world as storm > 



TWA BRIGS OF AYR. 




ORE than a century and a quarter ago, on a dark 
night of mid-winter, a terrible storm passed over 
^wv\ ^\-^Q British Isles ; a tempest of wind and sleet, that 
i'^ swept the barren moors and whistled through the soli- 
tary glens of Scotland ; lashing the billows of old ocean 
with fury against her rocky headlands. 

Other storms as wild, have before and since swept over 
those sea-girt shores, and will so continue, at intervals, until 
the end of time. Why is it then that this one storm should 
be forever remembered, whilst others are so soon forgotten? 
On that particular night, amid the moaning and sigh- 
ing of the wind, and the beating of hail and sleet, within a 
frail clay biggin erected by the horny hands of an over- 
worked Scotchman, was heard the first- wailing cry of a cer- 
tain peasant boy, as he was ushered into a world as stormy 



as the elements around ; a boy wlio was destined by tlie 
force of his native crenius to write the son^-s of his coiintrv ; 
songs that have been heard from "Indus to the Pole," and 
which have served more than anything else to unite his 
countr\-men in one great bond of brotherhood. That boy 
was Robert Burns. 

Had a belated traveler chanced to pass that way, he 
would have beheld a light glimmering from that one cot- 
tage window long after the other firesides were wTapped in 
darkness. That light which then shone so lonely is em- 
blematic of his solitary- genius, which has illumined all 
parts of the world where the English language is spoken ; 
and that spot from which that light emanated, marks an 
humble centre within a circuit of many miles which will be 
forever known as the Land of Robert Bums. It is these 
scenes and places made immortal by the magic of his genius, 
encompassed within this space, that I have chosen for the 
subject of this essay. '' Auld Ayr" which Bums tells us, 

"Xe'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men an bonnie lasses," 

is situated at the mouth of the river of the same name, on 



an eminence that slopes gently to the sea, and in the vicinity 
of scenery unsurpassed for its beauty. Here the river, 
(spanned by the "Twa Brigs," celebrated because Burns 
chose to write about them) flows murmuring to the sea, 
loath to part from the flowery meads and fragrant dells 
through which it has gone singing, lending a pastoral 
beauty to the landscape by its winding and picturesque 
course. 

Ayr presents a very different appearance now, from 
what it did in the days of the poet. The rural life and 
labors of a hundred years ago have given way before the 
more certain sources of wealth demanded by the luxurious 
ideas of later generations. The old bridge still stands after 
being a silent witness of the destruction of the new, as the 
poet predicted in his dialogue of "The Brigs of Ayr." 

"I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn!" 

Another and more substantial structure has been erected 
in its place. 

The town is now more famous on account of its asso- 
ciation with the writings of Burns, than for anything it 
contains. The old tavern, celebrated the world over as the 



place where Tain O'Slianter and Souter Johnny held their 
fanions orgies, still stands and is in excellent preservation ; 
though of course much altered. No one who \isits it 
should fail to refresh himself with the foaming ale, or to sit 
in Tarn's favorite chair, 

"Fast by an ingle bleezing fineh", 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divineh- ;" 

There is a painting now, over the doorway of the inn, 
entitled the "Stirrup Cup." Tani, mounted on his old grey 
jVIeg, clasps the hand of Souter Jolinu)- who staggers by the 
side of his horse. The landlord holds a lantern over his 
head, whilst the landlady stands in the door with a candle, 
her apron and the mane of the mare tossing wildly in the 
wind. 

" Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches. Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
That drear\- hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in." 



, past "Aulci 

It is the 
iriat Tarn took on that eventtul night, and, as we are about 
to follow with clearer heads and a beautiful sun to illumine 
our pathway, we descend towards a narrow valley evident!} 
scooped out by tlie brook, tributary to the Doon, where 
Tarn rode 

"cross the foorcJ 
\\ m smoored, 

. ■>l^IXai¥t^W10aau^-bane ; 
whins, and by the cairn, 
c murder'd bairn; 
the well, 
ither hang'dhersel!" 

ions of Tarn's ride from Ayr, are 

<n^' .. ...J distance from the highway. 

^v/iii..v.. .v^i by the fact, that the old road by which 

and Bur- '-■"■ elf had to travel, was considerably 

• I) ' ;eans so straight as that by which 

the traveler is uuw coiiaucted. 



ALLOW AY KIRK. 



This road leads from the old town of Ayr, past the cot- 
tage in which Bnrns was born, past "Anld Alloway's 
hannted kirk," and over the bridge of Doon. It is the same 
that Tam took on that eventful night, and, as we are about 
to follow with clearer heads and a beautiful sun to illumine 
our pathwa}', we descend towards a narrow valley evidently 
scooped out b}' the brook, tributary to the Doon, where 

Tam rode 

'"cross the foord 

Where in the snaw the chapman smoored. 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Mungo's niither liang'd hersel!" 

All these local indications of Tam's ride from Ayr, are 
still to be seen, but at some distance from the highway. 
This is accounted for by the fact, that the old road by which 
the hero, and Burns himself had to travel, was considerably 
to the west, and by no means so straight as that by which 
the traveler is now conducted. 



About two miles from Ayr, on a slight bend in the 
road, stands an 'humble thatch-roofed cottage; bearing be- 
side the doorway a signboard. We pause, and reverently 
and instinctively uncover our heads as we read the simple 
inscription. 

"Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet, was born 
under this roof, on the 25th of Jan. A. D. 1759, 
died 2ist of July A. D. 1796, aged ^ilV^. years." 

This then is the cottage we had come so far to see. 
We enter, but I cannot attempt to describe our feelings as 
we stood before the little recess in the kitchen, just large 
enough to hold a bed, where the poet was born. There still 
stands the old dresser, bent and deformed by age, made by 
his father ; and we have already seen that a portion of these 
walls was the work of his hands. 

I recalled the time, when I, a mere child, first saw a 
wood cut representing this quiet wayside cottage; not 
dreaming then that I should one day do myself the honor 
of beholding this spot, visited by persons from every quar- 
ter of the civilized globe ; and one which no doubt, unborn 



generations will come thousands of miles, across stormy 
seas and vast continents, to pay homage to this shrine of 
genius, the birth place of Robert Burns. 

The biographers of the poet with one accord, point out 
this cottage as the one he had in mind when he wrote that 
immortal poem "The Cotter's Saturday Night." This 
poem, Lockhart justly remarks, "is of all Burns's pieces the 
one whose exclusion from the collection would be most in- 
jurious, if not to the genius of the poet, at least to the 
character of the man." In writing this poem Burns has 
given us not only a vivid and faithful picture of his father's 
fireside, but of thousands of others throughout the length 
and breadth of the land — for — 

"From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home rever'd 
abroad. 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

'An honest man's the noblest work of 
God.' " 

Our next place of destination near the cottage is 
"AUoway's auld haunted kirk," with nothing but its two 
gables and the side walls remaining ; one of the gables. 



(that next the road,) is surmounted by a small stone arch, 
in which the bell still hangs. The wood-work, such as door 
and window frames, roof and rafters, are all gone. This 
can scarcely be wondered at, when we take into considera- 
tion the vast number of snuff-boxes, and other articles of 
similar character which have been sold as portions of the 
old kirk. 

Between the gate of the church-yard and the ruin, is 
the mossy marble which marks the grave of Burns's father, 
erected by the poet, and inscribed with a touching epitaph 
from his pen, sincerely expressing his filial affection and re- 
gard ; it is as follows : — 

"O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious reverence and attend ; 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the generous friend." 

"The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 

I have understood that it was at one time the desire of 
Burns to be buried here, and what more fitting monument 




^* *. 



coiild iie have had than "Auld AIL 

The intt 
txi as a pla 
tallied his remains alone. Chisteriug vines, vines he loved 
so dearly would have grown gracefully over this ruin. 
There, with the winds of Doon ^' tlie grass above 

him, and amid the singi; should rest in 

peace f" 

we have so fondly 

is situated 

^m Lhc banks ^-t" the Doon, surrounded bv an enclosed plot 

of mmuni-MA^ufmy^mm mm^ now.ri,„. 

•1 rivriilar tempi* of; l.wsic beauty, 
...chian col ^. >...., emblematic 
ol Lin. uuiv iiii; "pon a triangular base, the 

sides of which aie luwa; hief divisions of Ayr- 

shire, Kile, Carrick, and Lunmngnar; 

T^e graceful entablature sapportea U} iiicsc columns, 
lar roof, over which i 
1 the trian; m 

(iUlued light falls through stained glass 



BURNS MONUMENT, AYR. 



could he have had than " Auld Alloway's haunted kirk," 
made immortal by his genius ? The interior of this church, 
since occupied as a place of sepulchre, should have con- 
tained his remains alone. Clustering vines, vines he loved 
so dearly would have grown gracefully over this ruin. 
There, with the winds of Doon to wave the grass above 
him, and amid the singing of birds, his body should rest in 
peace forever. 

Reluctantly leaving this spot, where we have so fondly 
lingered, we pass on to the Burns monument. It is situated 
on the banks of the Doon, surrounded by an enclosed plot 
of ground, laid out with peaceful walks and flowering 
shrubs. 

It consists of an open circular temple of classic beauty, 
encircled by nine graceful Corinthian columns, emblematic 
of the nine muses, and rests upon a triangular base, the 
sides of which are toward the three chief divisions of Ayr- 
shire, Kile, Carrick, and Cunningham. 

The graceful entablature supported by these columns, 
is surmounted by a circular roof, over which is appropriately 
placed a tripod. Within the triangular base is a round 
chamber where the subdued light falls through stained glass 



placed in the cupola. This chamber contains many relics 
connected with the personal histor}' of the poet. Beside a 
complete edition of his published works, is his portrait, a 
copy after Nasmyth, by Stevens, and a marble bust from 
the chisel of Patrick Park, spirited sketch of scenes from 
his poems, and the marriage ring of Bonnie Jean : but the 
objects over which one is ever wont to linger the longest is 
the bible which he presented to Highland ^lary on the oc- 
casion of their final meeting, and a lock of her hair. This 
is very light, almost colorless, no doubt much faded ; but 
who can look upon it without having vividly before him 
the angelic image of that pure and delicate creature Marx- 
Campbell, the Highland Mar\- of Burns. 

The bible is in two volumes ; on the first of which is 
inscribed in Burns's hand "And ye shall not swear by my 
name falseh', I am the Lord ;" and on the second volume, 
" Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shall perform unto 
the Lord thine oath.'' The names of Robert Burns and 
Mar}- Campbell, which were originally inscribed on the 
volumes, are nearly effaced. 

There is a sentiment as pure as it is touching in the 
manner in which Burns was betrothed to this dear o^irl. 



Some allusion is made to it, I believe, in every one of the 
many lives published of the poet. 

" They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render 
them more sacred ; they made them by a burn where they 
had courted, that open nature might be a witness ; they 
made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought 
of God in this mutual act ; and when they had done, they 
both took water in their hands and scattered it in the air, to 
intimate that as the stream was pure so were their inten- 
tions. On that day they parted never to meet again ! She 
died in a burning fever, within six months, and all that he 
had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Bible 
which she exchanged for his." 

This is the oft repeated story, but who would wish it 
forgotten ? It is the remembrance of the past, the recalling 
of the days that are gone which gives to the old songs their 
sentiment, and to the friendships of youth a purity and 
freshness of feeling we can never experience again. 

To the untimely death of Highland Mary, we owe one 
of the sweetest poems ever written in any language ; that 
to " Mary in Heaven." What can be more beautiful or 
pathetic than the first stanza ? 



"Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again' thou usherest in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" 

I am well aware that more recent investigations of Mr. 
Scott Douglass and of Dr. Chambers, prove too clearh' that 
at the very time he was writing his broken-hearted 
"Lament" over Jean Armour's desertion of him at the com- 
mand of her father, occurred this sad episode of Marv 
Campbell. 

M>- object is neither to excuse nor to condemn ; I am 
not writing his biography, but simply describing objects 
and places I have seen connected with the poet, and the im- 
pressions they made on me. But where, let me ask, in the 
annals of literary history, is there the man for' whose suffer- 
ings we have so much sympathy, and for whose genius a 



greater regard than we have for the genius and the suffer- 
ings of Robert Burns ? 

We now stroll beneath the cooling shade that skirts the 
bonnie Doon, spanned by the " Auld Brig," over which Tarn 
rode on that eventful night, with the hellish legion after 
him. 

"Now, do thy speedy iitniost, IMeg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig." 

Of these two rivers, the Doon and Ayr, Burns was ever 
wont to sing. His genius has given them an importance 
they could not otherwise have obtained. Our own sweet 
poet Whittier, has in consequence mentioned them with the 
classic rivers of the world. 

"We know^ the world is rich with streams 

Renowned in song and story, 
Whose music murmurs through our dreams 

Of human love and glory. 
We know that Arno's banks are fair, 

And Rhine has castled shadows. 
And poet- tuned, the Doon and Ayr 

Go singing down their meadows." 



In sending that most beantiful and popnlar song "The 
Banks O' Doon" to a friend, Bnrns says, March 1791; 
"While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a 
little conntrv inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a 
poor fellow of a sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. 
By heavens I say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits, 
which the magic of that sound "Auld Toon O' Ayr" con- 
jured up, I will send my last song to ]\Ir. Ballantine. Then 
he gives the song beginning thus, 

"Ye flowery banks O' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fii' O' care!" 

Robert was in his seventh year when the family moved 
from the cottage in which he was born to ]\Iount Oliphant, 
about two miles distant from the bridge of Doon. Here he 
resided until the lease expired, in his eighteenth year. 

Owing to the impoverished condition of the land and 
bad seasons, the family experienced that terrible struggle 



.■ wnici 
ii.y iite tliat p.' vibmmg '* 11; 



1 . was in his fifteenth summer, whilst toiling on this 
farm, that he first experienced that sentiment which after- 
wards led to ig^, and which inspir^^d his 

;ilminatj 
:1c ha? t ihed this incident, 

that T itrefL 



.VLOoa ^o oma ajUA 

a man ana woman 'together as partners in the labors of the 
harvest. In ray fifteen'' 'ner was a be- 



of i-. 'lat 

• /uage, b 
bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In s' it- 

jiy to herself, initiated u, 

ite of acid disaDDointmcnt. oin-b.orsc nrndence, 
;.., .Lnnc: imman 



AULD BRIG OF BOON. 




with poverty which ended in defeat. This was the period 
of his life that Burns described as combining "the cheerless 
gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing toil of a galley- 
slave." 

It was in his fifteenth summer, whilst toiling on this 
farm, that he first experienced that sentiment which after- 
wards led to so much love making, and which inspired his 
harp with those melodious strains culminating in many a 
beautiful song. He has so faithfully described this incident, 
that I prefer giving it in his own words. 

"You know" he says, "our country custom of coupling 
a man and woman together as partners in the labors of the 
harvest. In my fifteenth summer my partner was a be- 
witching creature, a year younger than myself My scarcity 
of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language, but you know the Scottish idiom. She was a 
bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altogether, unwit- 
tingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, 
which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
and book worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
joys here below. 



" How she caught the contagion I cannot telL In- 
deed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with he'r, when returning in the evening from our 
labors ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings 
thrill like an Aeolian harp : and especially why my pulse 
beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered over 
her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle stings and 
thistles. 

"Among her love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly; 
and it was her favorite reel to which I attempted giving an 
embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptions as 
to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, com- 
posed by men who read Greek and Latin ; but my girl sang 
a song which was said to be composed by a country laird's 
son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; 
and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; 
for, excepting that he could shear sheep and cast peats, his 
father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft 
than myself 

"Thus with me began love and poetry. I composed a 
song to her in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this 



:c it iiiL 



ni, ine .' 
' ., '.; "f-Te tiic clouds ol udvcr.siv.'. 

a: pa:-'. 11 '. ; > r; i- tant at first, gradually dark- 

eiK'd around thein, almosl completely obliterating all hope 
for the future. 

The farm ;; :e one they 

ha' i not prove prosperous. Some i; ite mis- 

understanding about the meaning of the lease, led to a law- 
sui; the result of which would 

have landed BuiMQOQ' TOni8:aWAaT in jail, had not 
death kindly come to his relief. " His all went " says 
I'uns, "among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennels 
of justice." 

In recallii: cautiful surroundings of this farm, 

situated among imdulating fields, on the North bank of the 
Ayr, one cannot but feel how happy they might ilur^ 1i.i\ , 
been, with only a little, a ver\' little more meaub. 

The view southward is ovqt the hills of Carrick ; and 
westward toward th'^ '''■•'^ ■ of Arran, Ailsa Craig, arc' 
the Firth of Clyde towara the Western sea. Tlif uric 



BANKS OF DOOX. 



hour I never recollect it, but my heart melts, my blood sal- 
lies at the remembrance." 

Leaving Mount Oliphant, the family removed to Loch- 
lea, distant about ten miles. Here the clouds of adversity 
apparentlv brighter and more distant at first, gradually dark- 
ened around them, almost completely obliterating all hope 
for the future. 

The farm although larger and better than the one they 
had left, did not prove prosperous. Some unfortunate mis- 
understanding about the meaning of the lease, led to a law- 
suit, which lasted three years ; the result of which would 
have landed Burns's good, pious old father in jail, had not 
death kindly come to his relief. " His all went " says 
Burns, " among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennels 
of justice." 

In recalling the beautiful surroundings of this farm, 
situated among undulating fields, on the North bank of the 
Ayr, one cannot but feel how happy they might there have 
been, with only a little, a very little more means. 

The view southward is over the hills of Carrick ; and 
westward toward the Isle of Arran, Ailsa Craig, and down 
the Firth of Clvde toward the Western sea. The mere 



mention of these names vividh- recalls the impression they 
made on me when I first beheld them, on my way by sea 
from Liverpool' to Glasgow. 

The first I saw of Scotland was the ]\Inll of Galloway, 
and soon after, the storm-beaten Ailsa Craig, a huge pyram- 
idal rock, rising abruptly from the sea to the height of over 
a thousand feet, the home of multitudes of sea birds. Later 
we were abreast of the beautiful Isle of Arran, with the 
Goatfell mountain towering three thousand feet above the 
level of old ocean, a jeweled gateway- it seemed to the far- 
famed Highlands. 

The morning sun was shining brightly upon its bold 
furrowed brow, giving it the effect of burnished silver in an 
emerald setting, as it towered above the greener hills. 

It was amid these surroundings, that the spirit of the 
father of Robert Burns took its flight to heights far above 
the troubles and anxieties of this world. His loss was felt 
keenly by his gifted son, who grieved long and sincerely for 
that dear parent, who was only loath to part from this world, 
on account of the anxiet>' he felt for his son's waywardness. 

His genius he had always respected, but his stormy 
passions he felt, would, sooner or later, bring sorrow and 



trouble in the train of present difificulties, long after his own 
body would be peacefully at rest beneath the shadow of 
Auld Alloway's haunted kirk. 

Preparations had been made some months before for the 
removal of the family to Mossgiel, where Robert and Gil- 
bert had hoped to shelter their parents from the storm that 
encompassed them. 

Hither they moved on their father's death. "Every 
member of the family," says Gilbert, " contributed their 
savings towards stocking the place, and each was allowed 
ordinary wages for the labor he performed on the farm. My 
brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum 
each, and during the whole time this family concern lasted, 
Robert's expenses never in any one year exceeded his slen- 
der income." 

The following anecdote, related b)- Gilbert, serves to 
show how unfit Robert was for the occupation fate seemed 
ever to have in store for him, "At this time he procured a 
little book of blank paper, with the purpose, expressed on 
the first page of making farming memoranda; these are 
curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, and he gives the follow- 
ing specimen. 



"O why the diice should I repine 

And be an ill forboder? 
- I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine, 
I'll go and be a sodger." 

Is there not something inexpressively sad in this anec- 
dote? Genius, taste, inclination, all his higher and nobler 
aspirations leading him towards those heights where no 
doubt he saw fame's proud temple, though afar, shining for 
him, if he could but follow the dictates of his soul. On the 
other hand, labor, duty to a widowed mother, and the neces- 
sity of living ; of keeping soul and body together, over-weigh- 
ing everything else, so that he could only follow his Muse 
but irregularly at best, and only after his body was fatigued 
by daily toil. Notwithstanding these difficulties, he worked 
diligently and in secret, producing those works which laid 
the foundation of his undying fame. 

It was here, whilst holding the plough (a favorite situ- 
ation with him for poetic composition) he wrote the verses 
to the "Mouse" and to the "Mountain Daisy." 

He used to remark to me, says his brother, that he 
" could not conceive a more mortifying picture of human 



1 mail seekiuj; • U is to • 

"Man was mud<: to Mourn 
e venerable phrase, "Lt'l 
:cll froiM 
will be forever indebted lor that exquisite picture ot rural 
^ Saturday Night." 
In " Man was ui 
taken nianv hint 



-Ah! 1 

'' I had an old grand-uncle," says 
(iters to Mrs. Dunlop, "with whom my mother lived in 

1) \-(';^ir< ; the gC'il '>TiT ^li'ii fur siirli lit' ■u;is. \v;is 

,Tw.,t . ,1 , 



.lie SIU4 



IH.I cry, will 

. .. 'r-K T :r 




FROM THE BROWN HILLS OF CARRICK. 



life, than a man seeking work." It is to this sentiment we 
owe the elegy "Man was made to Monrn ;" and it is to his 
appreciation of the venerable phrase, "Let us worship (rod," 
as it fell from the lips of his honored lather, that the world 
will be foi-ever indebted for that exquisite picture of rural 
life, "The Cotter's Saturday Night." 

In " Man was made to Mourn," IJurns is said to have 
taken many hints from an ancient ballad, entitled, " The 
Life and i\ge of Man ;" which begins thus : 

"Upon the sixteenth hunder year of God, and fifty-three 

Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear as writings 
testifie. 

On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, 

With many a sigh and sob did say — Ah ! man is made 
to moan !" 

" I had an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his 
letters to Mrs. Dunlop, " with whom my mother lived in 
her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was 
blind long ere he died ; during which time his highest en- 
joyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing 
the simple old song of " The Life and Age of Man." 



Burns had now remained long enough on this farm to 
become convinced that it could do no more at best, than 
support so large a family ; and he resolved to leave Scotland 
for the West Indies. He was without sufficient means to 
defray his expenses, and finally concluded that the small 
amount necessary for this purpose, might be raised by pub- 
lishing some of his poems. His friends aided him in ob- 
taining subscribers, and while the printing was in progress, 
he composed some of his best pieces. 

From childhood he had been a great student of nature, 
nothing escaped him. The wild-flowers his ploughshare 
had buried, unconsciously appealed to him for an epitaph 
that gave them immortality. 

The sweet song of birds, and the music the winds made 
sighing through the aeolian harp of winter woods, have 
been not only recorded by him, but translated into language 
so simple that we can all understand it. 

Of the first edition of six hundred copies, three hun- 
dred and fifty were already subscribed for. By this venture 
the poet found himself in the possession of twenty pounds. 

His passage was now engaged, his trunk packed, his 
last farewell of his friends taken, his last song composed. 



He was about leaving Scotland, perhaps forever ; but fate, 
let us hope, had something better in store for him. A letter 
was received by a friend of his from Dr. Blacklock of Edin- 
burgh, which again revived the dying spark of hope within 

his bosom. 

He remained, went to Edinburgh, was received, hon- 
ored, and toasted, by the best society of the capital. His 
manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, sim- 
ple, manly, and independent. Ladies, noble by birth, but 
far nobler in their attentions toward him were fascinated by 
his conversation ; they hung upon his every word, as he 
told them romantic stories of his rural life and many loves. 

Notwithstanding he was surrounded by all these 
gaities, he did not fail to seek out the house of Allan Ram- 
sey, and on entering it to uncover his head. He did not 
fail to go, pilgrim like, to pay homage at the grave of Rob- 
ert Fergusson, his elder brother in the muses, and kneeling 
down, he kissed the earth above him ; and had a fitting 
monument erected to his memory at his own expense. 

I have stood beside that grave, in the old Canon-gate 
church-yard, and copied the inscription which Burns had 
so kindly placed there. 



"Here lies Robert Fergusson, poet. 
Born Sep. 5tli, 1751. Died Oct i6th, 1774." 



"No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
No storied urn nor animated Bust, 
This simple stone directs Pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrow o'er her Poet's Dust." 

After a short tour through the sa\'age glens of the High- 
lands, and a visit to the country and grave of Ossian, as 
well as places famous in history or some old Scottish bal- 
lad, he again returns to his home to be gazed and wondered 
at by his former associates. The plain fanner who had left 
them but a few months before unknown, had now returned, 
crowned by the INIuses as the greatest poet Scotland ever 
produced. He had been honored by those who sat in high 
places in the capital of his country. 

The father of Jean Armour now begins to relent, and 
to see the man in a more favorable light. He now weds his 
bonnie Jean, the girl who had loved him so long and de- 
votedly. 




X 



i'.lhsla, 



aps the poc 
for his romantic sui 
Here '1 

'■ri '• 'It his fane 



>(> h) fl; 



If WlUi.lS \: 



■vcre htap 



moouliglil of memory; and iL > 
row lor his lost Hifihlam' ^' ' '.<) m 
Yet he di. ' 



now pai 




ilc 
banks 


of the K ..re he 1 . 


ilen walked 


; com- 


nninion with nature 






Tin- rnmilu remov( 


iifries, v'^'^ 





■ lie uar is uioiai c^jurbL wu:^ duwii- 

iiis iicalth became much impaired. 



MOSSGIEL. 



Then came the removal to Ellisland, a bad move in 
some respects, for, as Allan Cunningham's father told him, 
" He had made a poet's not a farmer's choice." But, no 
matter, perhaps the poems he now wrote were all the better 
for his romantic surroundings. 

Here Tam O'Shanter and his old grey Meg came stag- 
gering through his fancy ; and he gave to the "airy nothing 
a local habitation and a name." 

Here the winds of bonnie Doon were heard in the 
moonlight of memory ; and it was here he moaned his sor- 
row for his lost Highland Mary in the parting recollections 
of Auld Lang Syne. Yet he did not prosper. It was again 
the same old struggle, ending in disappointment. 

With a heavy heart he prepares to leave Ellisland. He 
now parts with his stock, his plough, and the flowery banks 
of the Nith, where he had so often walked in silent com- 
munion with nature. 

The family remove to Dumfries, where he for some 
time entertained high hopes of promotion in the Excise. 

Then came the dark days. His moral course was down- 
wards, and his health became much impaired. 



The man who could so charm by his social nature as to 
draw wearv travelers from their beds at midnight, and the 
farmer from 'his reapers, could hardly resist the fascinating 
bowl. 

Finally his soul became embittered with his pecuniary 
difficulties, and winter's icy blasts laid him low with rheu- 
matic fever. 

Spring came with her blossoms and the singing of 
birds. He left his home to inhale the balmy air wafted from 
afar across summer seas ; but it brought not back the tint of 
health to his cheek, nor the elasticity to his step. 

Once more he returned to his home. His good and 
loving wife was too ill to do much for him, but Jessie Lew- 
ars, the faithful beautiful Jessie watched over him with tear- 
ful eves, and revived the last spark of sentiment that noble 
breast was ever destined to feel. He rewarded her with 
some of his sweetest songs. 

"Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
Altho' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
Than ausfht in the world beside." 



i;i<i<)\v <'i II' 
window 
rhirtv vs< veil aiiii 
uid cold 
}>oet is p: 



Ri-in 



IS lieard m 
countrymen who sigh, ; 
rid re-echoe 
.DIASIO A8JIA 







AILSA CRAIG. 



Again, a solitary light is seen shining from the window 
of the room where Robert Burns is lying ; casting the flit- 
ting shadow of the sorrowing Jessie Lewars across the cur- 
tained window. 

Thirty-seven and a half years of toil, disappointment, 
and cold neglect, have done their cruel work. The great 
poet is passing away. 

Again a terrible storm sweeps over the land, from the 
depth of a nation's heart it comes ; it is heard in the wail- 
ing cry of thousands of his countrymen who sigh, Remorse ! 
Remorse ! It is now too late. The world re-echoes the cry. 




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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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